


The Fáthach

by Tribs



Series: For All The Skein 'Twixt [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Corporal Punishment (Blinding), Gen, Implied/Referenced Anthropophagy/Hematophagy, Implied/Referenced Soul Transmutation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, Not Vore I Swear Just Regular People-Eating, Pre-Eye Horror Anders, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-07 21:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17373956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tribs/pseuds/Tribs
Summary: Frisiandr is a seer, a soothsayer, and a brand of sorcerer known as a corrguinech.He's less than fond of the looming inevitability of age forcing his removal.Everyone else is less than fond of his attempt to subvert it.[Rework Required]





	1. Anders

I barricaded myself against the door, struggling to keep my breath even and my legs locked. On the other side chains rattled, tools and fists struck the walls, and a chorus of voices yelled for me to surrender myself.

Not for the first time in my life, I was being mobbed.

For the first time, I wasn’t sure I could calm them down.

Splinters were already chipping out of the woodwork near my shoulder, and I was getting the distinct feeling that my chances were less than optimal.

“Surely we can come to some better understanding of the situation through discussion!”

“You’ve talked enough!”  the person closest to the door shouted back.

“But I’ve only just begun!”

“Just _stop!”_

“You’re aware that you’ll perish without me!”

“We’ll perish _with you!”_

“Nonsense!”

_“You’ve done this to us!”_

“I’ve made a _mutually beneficial arrangement_ that will-”

_“You’ve sold us out!”_

“I’ve increased my use to you!”

“You’ve bargained off your soul _and_ our blood!”

“That is _factually incorrect!”_

The voices shifted as another group approached, crowing a chilling triumph.

_“We’ve got Siebe!”_

“Good work!”

I kept my shoulder pressed hard as I brought my hand to my face, covering my left eye. My right pulsed uncomfortably, thrumming through my skull and sending an audible wave of uncertainty through the crowd. The girl I was arguing with broke the murmuring again, probably recognizing the feeling for what it was.

_“Y’see that, old man?”_

I did. His spark was struggling, like they’d already beaten him half to death. I didn’t intend to end up the same.  “Keep him for me, he’s useless!”

_He’s not even complicit in this, damn fools. Can’t hold a vial without knocking over five more; lucky if he even knows what day it is._

Another set of voices cut in from a different direction, stirring the crowd back to its original howling bloodlust.

_“Axe!”_

_“She’s brought the axe!”_

_“Let her through, we’ll flush him out!”_

Oh.

A loud crack struck uncomfortably close to my head, the edge of the blade breaking through the wood with far more success than their sticks and spit rods had. I shied away from it, upsetting my already frail hold against the door, then stumbled as I made a split decision to run for the back window. The awkwardness of the gait wedged old, dagger-like pains into my knees.

I turned a corner too sharply, a sickening crunch my only reward for the effort. Pain shot higher along my legs, thorns digging into my hips as black specks flickered across my eyes.

I gasped for air, scrambling for something to catch myself with, the signals to release adrenaline that wasn’t there dulled under my screaming limbs. My fingers snagged something; too late, I realized it was not the shelf, but the cloth on it.

It all came clattering down around me as I fell, jars and tools of augury scattering out across the floor. The gilded book strayed dangerously close to the hearth, and one boot out of many sent it skittering the rest of the way. I tried to claw back to my feet using a nearby chair, leaning heavily against the back as I positioned it to shield against the sea of faces flooding my home.

I looked around uneasily as I brought my hand to my eye, trying to put on a winning grin.

“Surely, children, we can negotiate something?”

Three different hands grabbed my wrist.


	2. Matron

I settled against the oak tree, watching the irate mob drag Frisiandr from his home and down the path to the center of town. His arms were bound up like a wrangled goat, and I could hear him shouting with distant, panicked indignance.

The way his legs trailed uselessly behind the procession - jutting out at an unfortunate backwards angle around the knee - and the pain in his voice told me he’d done something stupid.

_ That’s what you get for never stretching them. _

I snorted at the thought, tapping my nails against the rapier blade while swinging a leg from my perch.

_ Maybe if you’d focused on fixing them instead of complaining about them at any given moment. Acting like just keeping them warm will fix everything. _

They restrained him across the length of one of the benches that sat around the town’s central fire pit, first gagging his mouth in an attempt to make him - for once in his life - be quiet. It didn’t do much beyond muffling him as they went about with the rope, but it was a nice change.

Two broke away to fetch the the jar I had seen them put on the fire earlier, its umber-tinted contents bubbling over and steaming in the cool evening air. His neck bulged and twisted as he tried to pull away, but a gauntleted hand grabbed him and held him still.

His eyes continued to dart from person to person, frantically looking for a way to weasel his way free. Some sympathy to play off of.

The yellow points found me instead.

I lifted a hand in greeting, smiled, and enjoyed the sound of being the last thing he’d ever see. 


	3. Fiadh

I undid the rusted latch to the root cellar, straining my back as I lifted the heavy door and kicked the prop into place. I looked back to the rising fog, shuddered, and descended.

It would be our first hunting night under the new fáth - almost everyone’s first without Frisiandr, specifically - and we weren’t too sure what would happen.

I just didn’t want to be here any longer than I had to be.

The room at the bottom of the stairs was cold and dark, and the stock shelves cut eerie shadows out of the light behind me. It felt damp, but whether the slickness was from the surroundings or my own cold sweat, I wasn’t sure.

He’d been incarcerated for the last three days, all of them silent. He hadn’t moved from the corner, slouched against the wall, like he was trying to will himself to rot faster. His last few meals sat, barely touched, with the only evidence that he’d moved shown as finger trails scraped through the crusted bowls of emmer wheat and bone broth. 

His head tilted as I approached, expression blank, and I averted my eyes from the festering blisters on his face. 

“Food for you.”

He nodded, and I half dropped the plate in my haste to put it down. Relief for the brevity of the interaction flushed through me, and I hastened to the door as the fingers of his unbound hand scraped into the food.

I made it halfway to the stairs before a voice cracked behind me.

“Wait.”


	4. Fiadh

We lingered in Kejsi’s roundhouse, the windows barricaded and the door just cracked enough for me and several other guards to peer through. I kept my eyes glued to the spot Frisiandr had always stood on foggy nights like these. 

_ The féth fíada, he’d called it. _

The new fáth, with all her iron fisted authority and flawless reassurances, was nowhere to be seen, and worries were starting to find voices. 

“Should we look for her?”

“No. She isn’t a corrguinech, her ways with the Choir might be different. More direct. We should wait.”

“If they’re more direct, should we not seek her out so we can learn them for ourselves? Was such a limited hold on our defences not what lead to our current problem?”

Murmurs of agreement slithered among us, coiling in our ears like worms. It felt surreal, like I was held captive in some terrible nightmare, and I couldn’t make myself protest against it.

_ Why is this happening? _

“We’ll divide up.”  Kejsi stood, taking her spear from against the door frame.  “You four, with me. - Fiadh.”

I looked up, a pang of guilt knotting in my stomach.

“Where’s your sword gone?”


	5. Fiadh

I turned, willing myself to unhear the command. Unfocused, broken,  _ expectant _ eyes met me. 

_ Can’t see me. Just turning to where the sound is. _

I waved a hand as if to prove it to myself.

No response.

I made a crude, hesitant gesture. 

He blinked, but still nothing.

I exhaled, and he honed in on the sound like a hawk.

“Good. You’re still here. Speak with me a moment.”

“... I shouldn’t.”

“Sit.”

I did, sharing a few less than kind words with myself. He used his hands to shift around to face me, then took his legs by the ankles and - with a grimace and several sickening pops - folded them into a crossed position. I swallowed down an upsurge of bile, pressing a hand across my mouth and focusing on controlling my breath.

“I assume that you’ve done away with Siebe by now.”

“N… Not me.”

He waved a hand, and the motion drew my attention to something smeared on the wall behind him.

“Not you, of course. But someone else.”

_ What? _

The question jarred me away from the circular patterns he’d made, crooked and mussed like he’d felt his way around his work. 

He took my silence for confirmation.

“Good, he would have served you all terribly. I was never fond of the inevitability of being replaced, and especially not by someone so incompetent.”

_ Oh. _  “If it helps any, the new fáth-”

“Pardon?”

“The new fáth. Er - she seems good?”   _ Why am I telling him? _

“... I see.”

He couldn’t do anything in shackles, but the way the shadows played across the wrinkles on his face made me uneasy.

_ He’s just talking. He’s an old man, just let him talk. He’ll be done soon. He just likes the sound of his own voice, everyone knows that. He always has. _

“Or, rather, I don’t.”

“What?”

He pointed to the blisters across his face, his expression now something more solemnly macabre.  “I  _ don’t _ see.”

“Oh. Right?”

“It’s unpleasant. I wouldn’t recommend you try it.”

“I… I won’t?”

He leaned against the wall as he exhaled, back squared against the largest of the circles.  “There were better ways to go about that, you know.”

“I didn’t pick the vinegar.”

“Ah, but the point remains to be said, Fiadh. They could have chosen a knife. Perhaps killed me outright, instead of going down this damned drawn-out route. You could correct their injustice now, if you were inclined to such a mercy.”

“We were told not to let you die.”

“Mh. By this new fáth, I take it?”

The back of my neck prickled, and I started to creep back to my feet.  “Yes. She said that-”

“That to kill me would unleash something unpleasant?”

I froze, then sat back down. He continued.

“Have you considered that I will soon perish, regardless of what you do? That the forfeit nature of my present being will require the completion of the transaction?”

“I don’t-”

He leaned forward, tone soft and conspiratorial.  “She intends to use my actions to make a production of herself, to gain your trust and my position. Isn’t it plain?”

His face was close; too close. I moved to scramble back to my feet, to leave, but his loose hand latched onto my wrist and drug me closer. The skin of his fingers writhed like something dead struggling to claw its way free as his breath rasped warm against my ear.

_ “Grant me death, Fiadh.” _


	6. Kejsi

_ The Choir is - like most wretched things in this world - a product of the daoine. _

An old memory of Frisiandr’s crisp voice lurked in the back of my head, providing unwelcome commentary as I crept along. It always drudged itself free during the hunting nights, running the same exhausted speech.

_ We were components of it, the bodies stitched together to create it. Made by some vain fool, looking to leave a closing mark on a massacre. _

It wasn’t comforting as a child by the fire after dinner, and still wasn’t comforting as an adult with a spear in hand. 

_ It feeds on our petty fears, our grievances with each other. The things we keep in the dark. _

Something shifted in the fog to my left, and I pivoted to look for the cause. Unlikely as it was, I hoped that it was just one of the others finally finding their way back.

_ You will find it at your windows, hoping to suck the marrow from your bones and the lies from your breath. _

Nobody emerged from the disturbance, so I steeled myself and crept towards the source.

_ Those it ensnares may find themselves able to escape, if so protected by guile. The féth fíada itself is less forgiving. _

There, in the speech, always a gesture to his eyes. Always the damn yellow eyes, like he was above any other daoine just for having them.

_ The rest of the taken - gone entirely. _

A shadow stirred near the fáth’s empty house, the door and once-perpetual smell of hearth smoke still long gone. A low sound, like the crunch of broken porcelain, drifted from a long shadow that lingered near the porch.

It was too tall to be part of the Choir, looking easily more than two of me. I inched to the side, skirting the perimeter of the path to find a better angle on it.

_ Of course, so long as I am here, you’ve nothing in particular to fear from either. _

Twisted musculature covered in short black fur composed most of what I could see. It crouched on goat’s legs, long fingers using some type of tool to pry free the skull-crest that hung above the doorway. 

_ So, remain out of the fog. _

It succeeded, dropping what it was chewing to bring the piece up to the rise between its shoulders, before tossing away the metal strip. 

_ Close your windows against the sun as it sets.  _

I watched in horror as Fiadh’s bent sword clattered to the ground.

_ And remember that without me, children, you will surely perish. _


	7. Fiadh

I collapsed into Frisiandr’s home, legs quivering as I slid down the wall next to the door. 

_ I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be out here. _

It was cold, dark; I could hear whispered voices and scuffling and the sound of something  _ crunching _ getting slowly closer. 

I couldn’t stay here, not long, and I kicked myself into getting up again. 

_ Look for it. _

_ Where is it? _

I’d snuck out - risked being eaten, or worse - for one thing. One  _ damn _ thing, and it might not even be intact.

_ I should’ve done it right away. Should have just come here instead of going there, should have just done it earlier, maybe brought it with me. Shouldn’t have left that damn sword with him until I’d checked. _

The fire.

_ Rathnait kicked it in, right. _

I fell to my knees, sifting through the ashes until my fingers grazed something hard and twisted. I pulled the book loose, blew off a puff of soot, and tried to shake the rest out of the metal knots before thumbing through the contents. 

The paper itself was singed at the edges, but, thankfully - unfortunately - the majority had managed to escape the same result. The thought to try setting it on fire a second time drifted in one ear, and I filed it away for when I was done.

I found a section of diagrams - what looked like a series of long channels that ended in small square openings, crudely outlined and labeled in cramped handwriting - before coming to the start of the next section.

An anatomical sketch took up the center of the page, below a title in a language I couldn’t read. I watched as the ink rippled, writhing into more familiar shapes, away from Frisiandr’s mother language and into my own.

“Being Transmutations and Self-Extraction into Higher Form.”

_ ‘The forfeit nature of my present being.’ _

I bit the inside of my cheek and passed over a few more pages, looking for something to better confirm my suspicion. 

“Construction of Binding Sigils; Requirements of Components and Such Sacrifices Detailed Therein”

_ The drawing on the wall. _

Something scraped above the door outside, and with a start I slammed the cover shut. My hands and face had gone clammy -  _ this wasn’t mine, wasn’t for me to read or dabble into _ \- and I pushed myself back to my feet, the book tight against my chest.

A form had snuck up on the house, blocking the entrance as it worked whatever prize it wanted loose. The soft crunching I’d heard before had returned. 

I couldn’t move, couldn’t force my legs into obeying what I needed to do.

Its goal soon gave away, wood splinters and porcelain dust raining in its wake. The crunching went quiet.

A Choir mask fell from above, fragmented and stripped clean like a mollusk.

The lurch I felt at the implication was nothing compared to the panic that gripped my neck when my sword followed it down, tossed aside like a spent toothpick.

I heard Kejsi shout, distant but approaching with heavy footfalls.

“Oi! Get away from that!”

The mass turned away.

I turned the opposite way, and ran as guilt crashed against my ears.

I knew who was at the door.

And I knew I’d rather chance the Choir.


	8. Matron

I found him in the morning, struggling in the wreckage of what had once been a pleasant village. 

The gaudy crest he’d taken had been incorporated well - a bit too well - and had gone off-color with the mockery of his own scars scoured into the bone.

It kept bobbing like a sinking boat as he struggled to get a hold of himself, patches of skin blossoming then subsiding as he compacted his soul back into something more believably human. 

His legs churned the most, preferring a goat’s configuration to the plantigrade form he was struggling to crack them into. 

I nudged a disembodied hand off the bench, settled down in its place, and waited for him to finish.

He finally doubled over, fabricated face slick with tears, choking down gasps as he forced the last of himself under the skin seal. The wrinkles on his hands rippled out from where his fingernails dug into his knees, deepening then smoothing over as the hair across his body thickened back to that of a younger man.

The look of a thirty-something clashed against my set impression of his insufferable face.

_ It doesn’t suit you, Frisiandr Fáthach. _

“Your vanity really  _ does  _ know no bounds, I see.”

He whirled on me, trying to point in accusation but missing the mark by a few paces.   _ “Where were you?” _

I side-stepped into line with his finger, suppressing a smile.  “Dealing with my own transaction.”

“You turn them against me, leave me to  _ rot,  _ and then you decide to  _ luxuriate in choosing your own fulfilment?” _

“Self-destruction is never pleasant. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Perhaps we should entomb _you_ in a cellar of pickling jars for several days, then _see if your opinion changes.”_

_ … No, that joke is far too low-hanging. _  “I simply made the job easier for you.”

He exhaled, shaky, stepping back and pressing his palms against what was left of his eyes.

“Traumatic, was it?”

His hands pulled down to his cheeks, eyebrows levelling a quiet scowl in my direction.

“There’s no shame in it. You  _ were  _ yelling something wretched.”

“None of this was necessary.”

“You made the decision to accept.”

“You were the one to ruin the plan.”

“The vinegar was their own idea,  _ corrguinech. _ Maybe you should’ve flaunted yourself less.”

“Maybe you should have  _ honored our agreement _ instead of breaking it for some simple, sadistic gratification.”

“You would’ve done the same to me.”

“I would have, were our positions reversed. That makes me no more endeared to you.”

“We don’t have to be  _ endeared  _ to each other, old man.”

“Your mastery of understatement continues to  _ astound,” _  he spat - his heart clearly not in it - as he felt his way onto the bench with me.

I stood up, making sure it was something he could hear.

He didn’t acknowledge the snubbing gesture beyond another sigh, just returned his hands to his face and reclined back to hog the length of the seat. 

“... Where do you propose we continue?”  he asked, muffled, after a moment of nice silence.

I looked between the ruined homes, little more than frames and scattered furniture now, then at the shredded and gnawed-on bodily remnants. 

Some pieces were clearly taken from the Choir, but the presence of arms and legs painted it as more a picked-at-and-discarded appetizer than anything more.

_ Probably scuttled off somewhere to recollect itself. _

“Well, not here.”

“Obviously.”


End file.
